


Missing

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Assigned to a fairly unusual and deeply personal missing persons case, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade finds himself neck-deep in a world marred by corruption, politics, and dead men.  Finding out that there are factions of the British government which even Mycroft Holmes has no control over isn't even the worst of it, and he'll be lucky if he walks away from this one with his life.Not thatthathad ever stopped him before.





	1. Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a two-line conversation set in Greg's flat, and exploded from there. I'll add more tags as things change.

It was almost 2am by the time Lestrade’s key slotted with a low series of dull clicks into the Yale lock of his front door.  It turned with a ‘thunk’, the door swinging inwards as he stumbled into his darkened flat, coat slipping from his shoulders to pool at the floor by his feet.  The bag in his hand from the all-night Tesco rustled against the floor as he placed it non-too-lightly down on the linoleum flooring of his small hallway, remembering a moment too late that there were eggs in there, and hoped vaguely that he hadn’t cracked them. 

The day had been no easier than the one before, or the day before that, and he was due back at his desk in no less than five hours.  He was fast approaching seventy hours without having been home, catching a few hours sleep at his desk where he could and Greg was understandably exhausted. Despite the showers at the precinct, he was fairly certain that he stank, sweat stains on his shirt likely to leave a permanent reminder of the hellish week he was living through.  Still, he’d take what he could get for the moment; the thought of his own bed and a fresh change of clothes was more than he might have wished for only a few hours earlier. If he was lucky, perhaps even breakfast in the morning in his own kitchen and a cup of half decent coffee, the tiny room to his right containing little more than a fridge, sink, oven and the overpriced espresso machine that had been a wedding present too many moons ago.  It hadn’t been the best thing about his marriage, but it was the only thing that stuck.

He had been allocated to a missing person’s case first thing on Monday morning, before he had even reached his office; orders from the top that came from above his own boss and required his assistance by name.  Above his boss’ boss, even, and he didn’t have to think overly hard to realise precisely who had made the direct request. What he hadn’t yet managed to comprehend was  _ why _ .

But, Monday had ticked away with no leads, Tuesday was no better and now they had lost Wednesday as well, Thursday seeming ever more daunting even in the far too early hours of morning.  He knew, as everyone did, that the first forty eight hours were paramount in the case of any missing persons - after that, the likelihood of finding them alive and well grew ever more remote.  Not that he could stop looking; not that he  _ would _ , even given the order.

Movement, deeper within the bowels of his flat, black as pitch from the heavy blackout blinds which shielded against the unnatural orange glow emitted by the street lamp directly outside his living room window.  A lurch of hope-mixed-dread as his hand hovered near the light switch before retreating again, front door still partly open behind him and spilling artificial light into his tiny entranceway to offer only scant visibility.  One part of his mind whispered a hopeful  _ Sherlock _ ; it wouldn’t be the first time he had found the consulting detective lurking in the recesses of his home, admittedly normally with every single bulb lit and the contents of his kitchen cupboards spilled out over his worktops.  The other part murmured  _ burglar _ , and the cold weight of a bread knife in his right hand was a poor substitute for the gun he wished were there, though it was the only thing in his kitchen close enough to the door to grab while keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance into the living area.

Stepping forward, keeping his footsteps as silent as he could, Greg moved into the darkness of the unknown.  His own breath held fast between clenched teeth and closer now to the person invading his space, he could hear the slightly stunted breathing of the other,  _ only the one then _ , and all he could do was hope he might be right _. _  Knife poised - what little it would do if the other person had a gun - and knees slightly bent to either lunge or fall back, he flicked the light switch and flooded the room with bright light in the hopes that it would blind the intruder.

He knew he had half expected to see a Holmes on his sofa.  He had not, however, expected to see that  _ particular  _ Holmes.

“Mycroft?”  The man blinked up at him, owlish, not bothering to shield his eyes from the harsh light.  Greg thought for a moment that he might have woken him, and wouldn’t  _ that _ be a turn-up for the books - Mycroft Holmes napping uninvited on his sofa - yet the redness of his cheeks spoke of something other than sleep.  He had any number of questions muddling together in his head;  _ why are you here?  What are you doing in my flat?  Are you here alone? Has something else happened? _  What he finally settled on, however, was a simple, “Are you alright?”

“No, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft huffed by way of reply, his tongue sounding too thick in his mouth as the words lost their typical annunciation, usual strong posture long since abandoned as he slumped over his own knees, sinking further into the well-worn fabric, “it appears that I am not.”

“Has something- has Sherlock..?”  Recalling the knife in his hand, Greg abandoned the thing on the telephone table by the door, though his attention on Mycroft did not waver for even a moment.  The man looked utterly defeated; his ever-present suit was rumpled and Greg would not be in the slightest bit surprised if he hadn’t changed his clothing in these past three days either.  His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, hair slick to his head and lacking any of the usual style, dark with product and lack of care. The sight was more than a little sobering, and for one terrifying moment he thought that Sherlock must have been found.

When the call had come in, Greg had initially thought little of it; Sherlock had a habit of vanishing.  It would not have surprised him, at that point, if he had gotten himself distracted on some private case, only to reappear days later wondering what all the fuss was about.  Hell, he’d been gone for  _ two years _ not all that long ago, presumed dead and buried!  Greg could only hope this was not more of the same - he wasn’t certain John could handle going through  _ that _ a second time.

But, something had been different about this.  The details were sparse, all other cases were taken from Greg’s department and handed off to others, drafting in teams from other precincts to cover the loss of manpower as they poured everything they had into finding the missing Sherlock Holmes, and no one could tell him why.  The implication, however, was clear; Sherlock hadn’t disappeared of his own accord. Not this time.

“No, nothing of the sort, and therein lies the problem.”  Mycroft wasn’t looking at him, eyes drifting to a stain on the carpet beside the coffee table that Greg had been meaning to clean for almost a month.  They clearly weren’t tracking properly, and Greg’s mouth curved down into a concerned frown. “It has been too long, we have nothing of use, and I fear-”

“Hey.”  It took less than two strides to cover the distance between the doorway and the sofa, one arm braced on the back and he wasn’t entirely sure why he chose to lean over Mycroft but there they were, and he wasn’t about to back off.  Not yet, at least, surprised grey eyes blinking up at him, at the sudden close proximity. “We’ll  _ find _ him.  I swear to you, on whatever god you want, that I will find that smug bastard and bring him  _ home _ .”

“I know you will.”  There was a tight little smile on Mycroft’s lips, far too forced and the scent of scotch permeated the air between them.  “One way or the other.”

“You sure it was wise coming here on your own after a couple of drinks?”   _ A couple _ might have been underselling it; Mycroft looked as though he had worked his way through the better part of an entire bottle based on the lack of focus in his gaze and the slight lean to the right towards Greg’s arm.  Not that Greg could much blame him, and he knew that the man would never have allowed anyone to see him in such a state otherwise. He looked as though he might be on the verge of a breakdown, and perhaps that was why he had been allowed to wallow alone in the dark by  _ his people _ .

“You know as well as I, detective; I am never truly alone.  I am considered far too important to be left to my own devices for too long, even when mourning the loss of the brother I hold dear.”  There was too much emotion on his face, he was too  _ open _ , the carefully controlled facade crumbling around his feet and -  _ god _ , how did a man who could clearly feel so keenly end up in a position where he was expected not to?  Greg had seen flickers of it before, but this? He didn’t know quite how to handle this.

“Hey, come on now, you know Sherlock - he’ll turn up in a week, right as rain and wondering what all the fuss is about.”  He tried for reassuring, yet it sounded as false to his own years as it must have to Mycroft, Mycroft’s hands tightening into fists against his knees.  Greg paused, watching the emotions flicker over Mycroft’s face, schooled seconds too late. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“It has been decided,” Mycroft started, nervous tongue flicking out over dry lips as he slid back in his seat and apparently away from Greg’s hovering form, “that the document in question can no longer be kept from the investigation.”  A damp forehead came to rest against Greg’s wrist, shirt sleeves still rolled up from earlier that day and leaving the skin there exposed, and for one terrifying moment he thought perhaps the man might cry. Mycroft felt near-feverish, and it would not be overly surprising if the man was coming down with something.

“There was evidence and  _ you didn’t tell me? _ ”  The hand propping him upright clenched into a fist within the worn fabric of the sofa back, misplaced anger surging through his veins and in that moment he wondered what it might be like to hit the man sat in front of him.  Yet, Mycroft was clearly in no small measure of distress, unarmed and unlikely to defend himself so he swallowed the desire down with a tiny pang of shame at having even considered it. A reflex, and one he damn well wasn’t proud of.

“I did not  _ know _ .  The details relating to this case have been rather successfully  _ removed _ from my clearance level.”  Pointing at the manilla folder on the coffee table behind Greg’s legs, one that he had not noticed until that moment, Mycroft finally lifted himself away from the light skin-on-skin contact, head lolling back against the sofa.

“I didn’t know that was even possible.”  Greg deflated, chastised. The folder itself seemed fairly innocuous; plain, unmarked, not hugely thick from the looks of it.  

“No, I have to admit, until this week neither did I.”  Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft, who seemed too many miles away in the moment, lips parted slightly as he breathed in shallow little inhales.  He looked so small, so vulnerable, nothing like the man Greg thought he knew.

He hated this.

“Shit!”  Pushing himself away, Greg caught the flutter of fingers out of the corner of his eye, catching nothing but air and then retreating.  When he stopped, turned to look, Mycroft was back to staring at nothing and would not meet his eye. Pushing the odd, almost needy gesture to the back of his mind for the moment, he made his way back through to the hallway without saying anything further.  The front door was still open, caught on the crumpled fabric of his discarded jacket which he kicked out of the way. The door swung shut with a loud thump, locks clicking methodically into place and the chain sliding down the runner.

Not that it would particularly stop anyone who wanted to get in, as Mycroft had proven, but it made Greg feel better at least.

The light in the kitchen blinked and flickered, humming fluorescent tube so many years old that it was certain to die soon.  The yellowing plastic cover was in desperate need of a clean, a number of dead flies having gathered within the confines of the cheap casing.  Needing a new one would mean a trip to B&Q and a tenner down the drain, and he really should pick one up before it  _ did _ finally give up the ghost, yet there was always something far more important to occupy his time - such as the man presently inhabiting his living room.  Grabbing a clean glass and mug from the draining board, Greg let the cold water run for a good minute or so to get the temperature down and clear the worst of the limescale taste before filling both and stepping back through into the living room with his head a little clearer.  He would need a coffee fairly soon, but it could wait.

“Here.”  He passed Mycroft the glass, hoping it would be more satisfactory for the man than the chipped mug he kept for himself.  “Drink this, you’re probably dehydrated by now, and you’re going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.” He tried not to notice how Mycroft eyed the thing like it might jump up and bite him, the possibility of poisoning clearly so deeply ingrained that he debated whether to even touch the glass.  “It’s tap water. Don’t have any of that fancy bottled stuff, sorry.”

“Thank you, detective.”  Considering for a few more moments, he finally raised the glass to his lips, taking the smallest of sips and wincing at the not-quite-fresh taste and metallic tang that seemed ever-present.  Greg had a water filter jug, one of those Brita fridge things; it had been on sale apparently, one of the many remnants of his ex-wife which remained in his life, half-forgotten and unused. The filter in it had to be around a year and a half old at this point, and if he had any spare ones lying around their location remained a mystery.  He might invest in new ones, one day. More likely though it would go to the charity shop round the corner, or into the bin if they didn’t want it.

“You up to going through this tonight?  You’re pretty tipsy, might be better to get some sleep and go over what we’ve got in the morning.”  Not that Greg would be sleeping; he had new evidence in what had been an entirely impossible case, his friend - whether Sherlock himself considered Greg a friend was irrelevant - was still missing, he could handle another sleepless night.

“I may not be entirely sober, detective, but my memory is still flawless.”  Mycroft sniffed, the sound stuffy, and he almost seemed  _ offended _ for a moment.  It would have been amusing in any other situation, but nothing about their present predicament was funny.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”  Greg replied, pulling the folder into his lap and flipping it open.  He had encountered Sherlock drunk or worse more than he had ever wished to, and the man was no less brilliant for his blatant substance abuse.  “You want to walk me through this, or can I just go at it?”

“Please, go right ahead, though I doubt there will be much in there which is of any use.”  Mycroft wasn’t wrong; the folder contained one page after another with more black than white visible, some pages entirely redacted and completely pointless.

“You weren’t kidding.”  What the hell had Sherlock been up to that it needed to be kept even from Mycroft himself?  With a frown, he slid a handful of photographs free, laying each one out on the table and shoving everything else away, two magazines, a set of headphones and a book on  _ slow cooking for the freezer _ clattering to the floor.  Each photograph was in a sort of fake Polaroid format, a date marked beneath each one and further details scribbled down on the back.  There were twelve in total, going back eighteen months, and Greg wasn’t really certain what he was looking at.

“My superiors, it seems, have been monitoring my brother for some time.”  Mycroft took a deep breath, letting it out slowly and staring up at the three-arm light fitting hanging from the ceiling.  “His behaviour has been  _ suspect _ , apparently.”

“Suspect  _ how,  _ exactly?”  

“If I knew, detective, believe me when I say that I would tell you.”  None of this was adding up, scanning over the few words and paragraphs left to them within the folder helped little, though there was a repeated mention of an unnamed individual.  Male, late thirties to early forties, short blonde hair, just shy of six foot in height, get nothing he might be able to use for an e-fit. No facial features were detailed, no identifying marks, or if they had ever been they must have been caught up in the black lines of redacted text - the document seemed to suggest this mystery man and Sherlock were in some way linked, and that this was apparently important, yet there was nothing in there to indicate in what context.  There were also no photographs of this particular person, making the description next to useless.

“And I’m guessing there’s nothing in here that shines a light on that.”  No, he could see for himself that there was nothing, yet Greg was not about to stop looking; the clock ticked closer to 3am, and this was the best lead they’d had.  Hell, it was the  _ only _ lead they had.

“Nothing at all.  Or at least, nothing that I could find; I’m hoping that you may be able to spot something I have missed.”  At Greg’s incredulous look Mycroft loosed a humourless chuckle. “I am  _ compromised _ .  I have done the one thing that I swore I would never do and allowed my emotions to override my mind.  I cannot think straight, and I’m doing little to help that fact. I have my memory but my mind is... _ scattered _ , at present.  Until I can piece myself back together, I fear I will be of little use.”

“When was the last time you ate?”  The fact that Mycroft had to stop and think about that was far too telling, both in how long it had been and how scattered his brilliant mind had become.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you.  Tuesday, perhaps, though I’ve no idea what I might have eaten.”  And that was more than a little concerning; for a man so adamant his memory was unaffected to be unable to recall something so basic as his last meal, something was decidedly not right.  He could tell the realisation worried Mycroft as well, brows drawing together and the corners of his mouth dipping down into a small frown.

“You’ll be of no use to Sherlock if you don’t look after yourself, you know.”  

“I’m of no use to him at present regardless.”  Shaking his head, Mycroft seemed suddenly very small, nearing gaunt.  The look on his face was too close to utter despair, and Greg felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight.  “I just keep wondering if-” He paused, swallowing down the waver in his voice. “A frightening place, the mind, when facts are absent and imagination runs rampant.  It’s funny I suppose; I hadn’t considered myself to  _ have _ much of an imagination.”  He laughed, bitter and humourless.  “It appears I was mistaken.”

“Don’t suppose you could get me a copy of this without all the black lines?”  It was a long shot, but he had to try; there was something in there, something  _ important _ , and Greg knew full well it was the clue which would solve the mystery of their missing consulting detective.  It helped pull Mycroft from his self-deprecating train of thought as well, albeit only temporarily.

“I am sorry, I cannot - even I don’t have access to the unmarked copy.  I’ve no idea what it said originally either, before they butchered it for the eyes of the constabulary.”  He didn’t miss the note of bitterness in Mycroft’s tone, feeling for the man, knowing that the dossier held potential clues as to the whereabouts of his errant brother and having that information  _ denied _ to them - it was more than marginally frustrating.

“Useful.”  Greg grumbled, noting how Mycroft seemed to flinch at his comment, though he wasn’t sure that the man had actually moved.  “Not you, mind. The bureaucrats who think that country secrets are more important than a man’s life.”

“I’m afraid to say that, despite my own feelings in this matter, I agree with them.  Some things  _ are _ more important than the life of a single man.  Even if that man is my brother.”

“Well, we’ll just have to do this without those assholes then.”  Rearranging the photographs into date order served little purpose other than to busy his hands and help to try to organise what he had been given within his own mind.  Of the twelve, eleven were distant shots of Sherlock, barely recognisable and clearly cropped and then reprinted into that format - which made so little sense that he thought to dismiss it entirely for the moment.  The twelfth was a close up of another man, clearly  _ not _ Sherlock, yet the notes on the back stated that it must be and the height at least was there.  It was dated one week before Sherlock had been reported as missing, and the rear stated ‘ _ Teatro alla Scala, Milan _ ’.

“Before you ask; no, I’ve no idea why he was in Milan either.”  Mycroft looked so tired, emotionally exhausted but perhaps sobering a little as he sat slowly sipping on the glass of water in his hand.  He wasn’t looking at Greg, staring down at the manilla folder spread out across the Detective Inspector’s lap.

“John might know?”  If anyone would know, it was John; the man had barely left Sherlock’s side since Mary’s death.  Even with their fairly frequent arguments immediately after her death - a few of which Greg had been forced to witnessed, John’s grief and frustration and anger all overlapping to explode at the person closest to him - he scarcely let Sherlock out of his sight.  Greg could understand that fear; he had lost his best friend, gained a wife, then lost her too. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock go a second time, not now that he had him back.

“Doctor Watson was under the impression Sherlock was visiting our parents at that point in time, but no one has heard from him for over two weeks now.”

“ _ Two weeks? _  We were told he had disappeared at the weekend!”  Greg gaped at him, and still Mycroft stared down at the papers in his lap, at Greg’s hands.  

“It is not unusual for my brother to dodge my calls, unless he wants something for me, and it was not until I spoke with Doctor Watson on this matter that I became aware of a discrepancy in the stories he has been spinning.  Had he intended to visit our parents, he certainly never arrived with them, and it would be extremely peculiar for him to choose to go of his own accord, and never alone.”

“He doesn’t get on with your folks, then?”  And that was something Greg could understand to a point; he hadn’t gotten on too well with his own Father - the biological one, anyway.

“That is a mild way of putting it, detective.  He and our father scarcely see eye to eye, and Mummy for all her brilliance is entirely too overbearing for either one of us to handle her presence alone for any length of time.”  The corner of Mycroft’s mouth, the one he could see, shifted up into a wry sort of smile.

“Alright, so our timeline has completely changed.”  Grabbing one of the unpaid bills from the telephone table, Greg pulled the letter from the envelope and flipped it over, tugging his pen from his breast pocket to scribble on the blank side.  “So when was the last time anyone saw him?”

“He was accompanied to the door by Doctor Watson on the morning of 2nd of June - a Saturday - and took a black cab with a single suitcase.  The taxi driver was contacted for statement - page seventy two, if you wish - who advised that he had driven his passenger to Euston station, arriving at 12:17 according to the dashboard camera in the taxi.  He purchased a one way ticket to Manchester on his debit card at a cost of eighty six pounds, boarded the 12:40 service, and from that point the trail goes entirely cold.” Simple, efficient, and Greg found himself a little disturbed by the detached tone.  Mycroft was stating the facts and  _ only _ the facts - it was useful, and it didn’t surprise him, but he knew Mycroft cared for Sherlock as much as he did for his own sister.  Greg couldn’t imagine himself being able to do the same if he were in Mycroft’s shoes.

“ _ Entirely _ cold?  Surely someone saw him leaving the train?”  His pen hovered over the paper, skipping back and forth between the last two lines he had scribbled down.  People did not simply just  _ disappear _ \- not on packed public transport.  There was  _ always _ a trail.  It was just a case of finding it.

“No, and CCTV has given us nothing.  He was very carefully hiding his trail, and likely had the means to disguise himself within the suitcase he was seen carrying.”  Which meant he could have disembarked at any one of the stops between London and Manchester; Greg made a note to check which stops that particular train had made, at what times and for how long.

“If that’s the case, wouldn’t there be footage of another passenger carrying that same suitcase off the train, can’t we check for that?”  Over two weeks ago...the camera footage might not even exist anymore, much less show them what they needed to see.

“Very astute of you, detective.  Unfortunately, we already checked for that; the case was found abandoned in a train bathroom by the cleaners at Manchester Piccadilly, entirely empty, and was at that point handed in at the lost and found.”  Which meant it had been ignored and overlooked for the entire trip; not unusual on a busy train where suitcases and bags were liable to be shoved into any and all free spaces. 

“Empty?”  Greg‘s forehead wrinkled in mild confusion.  “So the clothes he was wearing when he boarded the train?”

“That is...only his coat has been recovered.”  Mycroft’s hand was trembling as he reached over, tugging the final page free from the folder and laying it on Greg’s lap, strangely careful not to actually touch him.  Another photograph was clipped to the page, one he had not seen, and this one an original; unmistakably Sherlock’s coat, bloodied and torn from what appeared to be a series of fairly large knife slashes.  Greg swallowed, stomach tightening, feeling mildly nauseous.

“The blood is-”

“-confirmed to be Sherlock’s, yes.”

“Shit.”


	2. Talent instantly recognises genius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it gets a smidge domestic before we get back on track, hope no one minds. Just a smidge. I've had to break this into two chapters, as everything I intended to go into this one simply made it too long.
> 
> Which means you get an extra chapter overall, I suppose - that's a good thing, right??

As he had guessed would be the case from the moment he found Mycroft Holmes on his sofa, Greg got no sleep that night.  Not that he was certain he _could_ have slept, even given the softness of his bed and the bed linen changed to a fresh set on Sunday afternoon.  The heaviness of his eyelids had, of course, begun to betray him after a time, and he had taken a break at just before four, preparing himself a mug of coffee so strong his spoon could almost have stood upright in it.

The taste had been fairly unpleasant, but it kept him awake at least, even the act of moving from his seat enough to get his brain moving a little better.  He felt less sluggish, and when Greg made his way back through to his living room he found Mycroft fast asleep on his sofa, head back and snoring softly. He still looked horribly unwell, but at least in sleep the crease in his brow had smoothed, taking with it half a decade.

It took some gentle coaxing, but he was eventually able to persuade Mycroft to lie on his side, cushion beneath his head and a wool blanket from the linen cupboard draped over his prone form.  He would have been a little long for it normally, but curled up on the cramped two-seater sofa it did the trick, and it would stop him from catching a chill. Greg would have liked to get a little more water into him, but the now-empty glass was at least better than nothing.

Notepad upon his knee, sat upon the carpet with the sofa at his back, Greg worked studiously, going over each page and picking out anything that might be even marginally relevant.  He found his own name in there, along with a number of mentions of both John and Mary, though no visible indication of Mycroft - not that he was particularly surprised at that.

Another cup of too-strong coffee, another walk around the kitchen to alleviate the pins and needles in his feet still wearing his clothes from Monday, shoulders stiff and backside numb from sitting on the hard floor for so long.  He was starting to see a pattern; areas of the document matching with one another, a repeat of names, or places, or dates that seemed non-sequential. The pages were numbered, but Greg was starting to wonder if perhaps they weren’t actually _in_ the right order.  Or, perhaps he was simply too tired for all this.

The mystery blonde made more appearances, he found, than he had originally thought.  The details were still sparse, but he was able to build up something resembling a picture of the man from fragmented sentences that had, at first, seemed unrelated.  Whoever he was, the document seemed to indicate that Sherlock knew him, or at the very least knew _of_ him.  There was still no name attached, but Greg was fairly certain that a mention of the _Betsey Trotwood_ pub in Farringdon from what seemed to be six weeks back pertained to their mystery man.  It was worth a follow-up if nothing else, someone might recall something of interest to the case.

It had occurred to Greg, more than once, that perhaps he was chasing a red herring, a string which would - when pulled - unravel into nothing all at once, leaving them no closer to finding Sherlock.  Still, if this man knew Sherlock, he may provide invaluable insight into where he might have gone and what could have happened. He could be a client, a suspect, a relative even - though Greg was certain even in his present state Mycroft would have picked up on that.  Hell, he could even be a secret lover for all Greg knew, as unlikely as that prospect may be.

At five thirty, coffee cup distressingly empty, he began transcribing out the visible words and paragraphs - what few there were by contrast to the dossier as a whole.  Without the black lines there to distract the eye, and the detail committed to memory through the act of writing it out, the picture was starting to build further, albeit with far more gaps and missing pieces than filled in ones.  The work was going to take much longer than he had, minutes ticking by far faster than he felt they should be, but it was _working_ \- he really was finally getting somewhere.  He almost jumped out of his skin when, at six forty five, the alarm on his phone went off, pen dragging a short line across the page and pulling a low curse from him.  He silenced it quickly, the blaring noise threatening to wake the sleeping guest on his sofa.

Not simply threatening, it seemed; the blanket-swaddled man curled behind him groaned, the noise clearly one of pain.  Mycroft’s head disappeared entirely beneath the blanket with the exception of a single tuft of sleep-mussed hair which poked out the top.  Greg allowed himself a low chuckle, tidying up the mess he had made of the dossier and tucking away his own notes for the moment with a final glance back at the blanket-swaddled ball on his sofa.   _Cute_.  He placed a fresh glass of water and two ibuprofen tablets down on the coffee table before padding through to his bathroom on sock-clad feet as quietly as he could.

The hot water felt blissful on his sore neck, and Greg could not help the low groan which escaped his lips at the sensation, head tilted forwards and basking beneath the warmth for several delightful minutes.  The touch of a lover, massaging tense muscles and leaving him feeling loose and pliable, stress-induced stiffness finally abating as he permitted himself a moment of relaxation. It would have been far too easy to simply doze off, and it was a wobble to the side as he slid a little too close to sleep which finally snapped Greg out of it.

He cleaned himself quickly after that, lathering his hair twice and rinsing to remove the artificial sweet smell of the shampoo from the showers at work, keeping himself moving.  It felt good to be clean, to not have to stand beneath the tiny fixed shower head in the communal showers and struggle to rinse the suds from his body. His razor, unblunted and new, slid across the lathered skin of his jaw without tugging even once, the small shaving mirror affixed to the tiles highlighting the deep bags beneath his eyes.  God he was tired, but he couldn’t rest yet, he had too much to do - and at least he didn’t look _too_ awful.  Shutting the water off when he felt significantly cleaner and decidedly nicer-smelling, Greg slid the glass door back and stepped out onto the thin bath mat, grabbing the towel from his rather over the top radiator to rub his hair dry.

His bathroom was strangely spacious, considering the age of the building, black tiles adorning the walls with white grouting, a shower comfortably large enough for two - not that he had as yet had the opportunity to try that - a matching suite of sink, toilet, and a bath which hadn’t yet been used.  Even the towel rail was fancy; one of those heated chrome things that was almost as tall as he was. Really, Sakib had gone a little overboard on it all, but he wasn’t about to complain if his landlord wanted to throw money at it. It was just a shame that the remainder of the flat didn’t match up.

Not that it had always been that way; when Greg had first moved in, the room looked as though it had been forcibly pulled through time from the sixties.  It was functional enough, and perfectly clean, but the unpleasant green and garish pink from the mis-matching bathroom suite was enough to induce a headache.  The redecoration hadn’t been planned; a tap left running in the bathroom of the flat upstairs - along with ridiculous amounts of wadded toilet paper thanks to a group of stoned teenagers - had not only flooded the room but caused part of the ceiling to collapse in and render his flat unlivable for a good few weeks.  His landlord had sorted it though, with minimal fuss, and Abigail hadn’t complained _too_ much about having to put him up for the duration.  Only so much as siblings were expected to, and he always ensured he made himself scarce on the evenings her boyfriend came to stay.  Which, to be fair, wasn’t overly many; his place was apparently far nicer than her own so Greg had found himself in front of the television with dinner for one more often than not.

When he wasn’t working, that was.  His sister had always complained he was going to work himself into an early grave.  As each birthday passed him by, he was starting to wonder if she was perhaps right.

Greg had just about finished drying himself off when the sound of knuckles rapping against wood dragged him back to the present.  Mycroft, it seemed, was unerringly polite - including in the manner in which he knocked, and he couldn’t help but smile at that thought.  Towel slung around his waist to preserve his modesty, fresh clothing and dressing gown somewhere in the catastrophe that was his bedroom at that moment, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Their eyes met for perhaps half a second before Mycroft’s gaze dragged down Greg’s mostly nude and still rather damp body, one elegant and perfectly plucked brow arching up in an unspoken _really?_  

“You’re looking less hungover than I thought you would.”  Greg grinned, his own eyebrows raising in challenge and Mycroft’s attention snapped back up to his face.  “Morning, by the way.”

“The tablets appear to be helping.”   _Liar_ , Greg thought to himself with an odd sort of fondness, though he chose not to voice it aloud; there was no way the ibuprofen could have kicked in within the few minutes he had been showering.  It was inconsequential anyway, if Mycroft wanted to pretend all was well - or _mostly_ well, his eyes were still red rimmed and bloodshot, but there was at least a little colour back in his cheeks - then that was his decision.  Instead, he slipped out of the bathroom and past Mycroft, entirely unbothered by his partial nudity or the way Mycroft was scrutinising his shirtless back with undisguised curiosity and perhaps even amusement.  He supposed it must be a novel thing, for someone who existed in a world far above his own.

“Good to hear.  Shower’s free, if you like - I’ll get you a clean towel out.”  Pulling the small hall cupboard door open - it used to house a boiler, apparently - Greg tugged the largest bath sheet he had free from the pile.  It was one he had never bothered using; came as part of the set and always seemed a little pointless, but Mycroft was almost certainly a bath sheet sort of person, and the newness of the towel meant it wasn’t going threadbare in places like the two smaller ones he used interchangeably.  “Help yourself to anything you need, it’s all on the floor of the shower.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, but I really must be going.”  A step back, and Greg really was not having any of that; he had questions, not only regarding the case itself, though he supposed he should really focus on that primarily.  Not that focus was going to be particularly easy considering his lack of sleep, but he had coffee to fix that, and a nap later would keep him going until nightfall. There was the nagging concern as well; he needed to reassure himself that Mycroft would be alright left to his own devices, Greg wasn’t about to lose _both_ Holmes brothers to this case.

“Oh no you don’t - you dumped the most vital piece of evidence so far on my lap last night, we’re going through it this morning, _properly_ , and I’m getting us some damn breakfast before my stomach starts eating itself.”  He shoved the towel in Mycroft’s hands and coaxed him back towards the bathroom door.  “Take your time, I’ll see if I can find you a clean set of clothes, and we’ll reconvene at the dining table.”

“Were you able to discern something of interest?”  There was undisguised curiosity there, visible in the small shift in expression and slight change in tone - and just when had he learned to read Mycroft’s micro-expressions?  Too much time spent with Sherlock perhaps, and the memory of it drew an concerned ache from his chest.

“Maybe, yeah.  I’ve got a few things I want to check, but I’ll go through it with you once you’re smelling a little sweeter.”  And, once he’d gotten some food into the man, as Mycroft’s stomach growled audibly, dragging a vaguely embarrassed flush across his pale cheeks.  He didn’t argue, dipping his chin in assent and vanishing into the still steam-filled bathroom, the lock sliding into place.

 

* * *

 

Greg had barely finished dressing, much less started looking for something which might fit Mycroft - the man several inches taller than he and of a completely different shape - when a knock sounded at the front door.  The clock read seven twenty, and he wondered who would be visiting at that time of the morning. More importantly, how had they gotten into the building without being buzzed in? Unless one of the other residents had let them in, but it still seemed a little strange.

The woman before him as he tugged the door open was perfectly presented in a black skirt suit with not so much as a wrinkle in her blouse.  Dark brown hair cascaded in curls over her shoulders and he was certain he recognised her from somewhere. In one hand she held a phone into which she was still tapping rapidly, her attention fixed to the screen, while in the other there was a green plastic suit bag with a hanger poking out the top which she passed to Greg with enough passive insistence that he found the action alone a little intimidating.  

“For Mr. Holmes.”  She iterated before he could speak a word in greeting or in question, finally turning a critical gaze on Greg before turning on her heel without waiting for a reply and striding with purpose back down the hallway towards the stairs.  

“Thanks.”  Greg muttered to her retreating form, thinking back to where he might have seen her before as he shut and locked his front door once more.  She was linked to Mycroft, which scarcely narrowed it down at all, and he pondered over the puzzle for a moment as he wandered back through towards the bathroom.  Recalling the various times over the years he had interacted with Mycroft Holmes, he did have some recollection of a woman standing off to one side, or in the car that Mycroft had emerged from or stepped into, always with a phone in her hand.  He had paid very little attention to her at the time, more important matters inevitably holding his attention, but he was certain it had been that self same woman at his door. His assistant, clearly, and he wondered how such a pretty face had escaped his notice for so long.  The shower was still running, the rush of water audible though no other sounds permeated the closed door.

“Mycroft?”  A gentle knock, two knuckles on hollow wood and he hooked the hanger peeking out the top of the suit bag over the handle of the door.  “There’s clothes for you outside the door, your unfairly attractive assistant dropped them off.”

“My thanks, I will be finished shortly.”  Mycroft’s voice was barely audible through the door, though Greg was certain he caught an edge of _something_ within it.  Clipped, perhaps a little embarrassed.

“No rush, take your time.”  Heading back through to the kitchen, Greg grabbed his phone from the table and hit redial as he pulled the Tesco bag back out from the fridge where he had shoved it last night without bothering to unpack it.  Phone jammed between his shoulder and ear, he was just cutting open a pack of bacon when the call connected.

“Hello?”  The voice on the end of the line was muffled, half asleep, and Greg couldn’t really blame her considering the past few days, biting back a laugh - his team had been working as hard as he had on this case, or close enough at least, and - despite her own dislike of Sherlock - Sally had been no exception.

“Donovan, got a lead on the case, you awake enough to talk?”  There was a moment of silence before his words finally registered, and Greg waited patiently for her.

“ _Shit!_ ”  There was frantic shuffling at the other end of the line as Sally scrambled out of bed, a male voice in the background for a moment, and he could hear her pulling clothes out of her wardrobe.  “I’ve overslept, sorry, yes I’m awake.”

“Calm down and listen.”  Bacon hit the pan, barely sizzling as it hit the oil, not having been left to heat up for long enough.  The sound of water hitting tile in the bathroom finally ceased and Greg searched through the utensil pot for a decent spatula.  “I’ve got a meeting with Mycroft Holmes first thing so I’m going to be late in. He’s managed to get us a document, it’s not got much in it, but there’s a couple of leads I want you to chase up for me.  Got a pen?”

“Yeah, got one, what d’you need?”  She had stopped rummaging and gone still on the other end of the line, plastic rustling from further in the flat as Mycroft located his clean change of clothes.

“The 12:40 from London Euston to Manchester Piccadilly on the second of June; last place Sherlock was sighted before he vanished.  I want to know who saw what - you’re looking for _anyone_ seen carrying his coat, you know what it looks like and there’s photos in the office if you need them.  Get the CCTV from every station along the way if they’ve still got it, pull in anyone you need to, and send them to me if they have a problem with that.”

“His coat?”  The photograph of the bloodied, torn fabric flashed across Greg’s mind, and his fingers tightened around the handle of the spatula.  The blood was Sherlock’s, but that _didn’t mean anything_.  He had stared at the photograph for long enough, there wasn’t huge quantities of blood, certainly not enough to indicate that he had bled out while wearing it.  He would need access to it to be certain, but most of the slashes seemed to have been put there purposefully; the coat was close to ribbons, had Sherlock been wearing it at the time then there should have been a lot more blood and a body attached to it.

No, it screamed of someone leaving a trail to follow.

“Yeah, I’ll explain that bit later.  I also want you to look into whether either Sherlock or his coat were spotted with or near a tall blonde man.”  

“Got a name for this mystery man, something else I can go off?”   _If only_ , Greg thought, his own mental imagery of the man he was trying to pinpoint worryingly lacking in features.

“Nope, I’ve got next to nothing on him, he exists though and he might know something so we need to track him down.”  The bathroom door clicked open as Greg flipped the bacon out of the pan and onto a clean plate, covering it with kitchen towel to soak up any extra fat.  “Get any information you can and call me if you find _anything_.  I’ll be in later today with what I’ve got.”  Hitting the disconnect button, Greg discarded his phone on the kitchen worktop with a clatter, forgetting it in favour of sliding two slices of white bread into his toaster.

“One of your subordinates?”  Mycroft looked decidedly more human when he stepped into the kitchen, gaze flicking from Greg’s face to the pile of covered bacon and back again.  He seemed a little surprised as a warm mug was pressed into his hands, and if he would have preferred tea he didn’t say.

“Sergeant Sally Donovan, I’m pretty sure you’ve spoken to her before.”  In passing he thought, perhaps, taking a mouthful from his own coffee mug and swallowing it down.  Sally generally tried to stay out of the way of anything political, which included Mycroft, and he did not blame her.

“Ah yes, the one who refers to my brother as ‘the freak’.”  The quirk of his eyebrows might as well have been audible, and Mycroft managed to somehow seem both amused and scathing.  While he would not have vocalised it, Greg had to admit to himself that he found the tone more than a little irksome. Not that it mattered; it would have been foolish of him to believe Mycroft would fail to pick up on his irritation, and by this point in their acquaintanceship he found it better to assume that the man knew every thought that passed through his mind long before he himself did.

“She’s getting better at not doing that in public, and I trust her, even if she _is_ a bit mouthy.”  Greg wasn’t about to apologise for one of his people, not even to Mycroft Holmes; Sally was a big girl, she was old enough to do it herself.  Besides, he knew she would follow his orders regardless of her personal feelings on the matter. He turned back to the pan, taking another piece of kitchen towel to wipe away some of the excess fat.  “Scrambled or fried?”

“I’m sorry?”  He could hear the surprise in Mycroft’s tone at the sudden change in conversation topic, and it might have been amusing if not for the fact that this was _Mycroft_ .  Residual alcohol in his system, maybe, but Greg was starting to think his earlier decision to keep an eye on the man for a while longer was justified.  Something just didn’t _feel_ right.

“Your eggs; scrambled or fried?”  The case was still playing on the back of his mind; Sherlock’s coat, the blood, the dossier, the mystery blonde who might just tie the whole thing together.  The worry of it all was going to give him an ulcer if he wasn’t careful. Greg forced it back, ignored it as best he could - just for the moment. Just until after breakfast.

“Oh...scrambled, please.”  Four of the six eggs found their way into a large Pyrex jug, their shells tossed into the rubbish bin under the sink.  It was a black bin week, he thought; Greg would need to empty the kitchen bin before they left, as the likelihood of being back in time to take it out before Friday morning was about as close to nil as it would ever be.

“Cheese and black pepper?”  The fork he had used to pluck the bacon from the plastic packaging found its way into the jug, whisking the eggs until they began to slightly foam on top.

“Of course.  You don’t add butter or milk?”  It surprised him a little, that Mycroft would know how to cook for himself.  Though, perhaps it shouldn’t; this was the man who Sherlock once stated - with a twinge of pride in his voice which he had later vehemently denied - learned foreign languages for fun.  

“Butter sometimes, if I’ve got the good stuff in.  Milk I don’t see the point of - my Nan used to, back when she was alive.  Habit. It was a wartime thing; food rationing, you know? Makes the eggs go further if you’ve got a lot of mouths to feed.”  His grandmother had been one of seven, three generations living under the same roof, and even six chickens hadn’t been enough to feed them all.  Greg had grown up hearing stories of her childhood, the farm, and what it was like existing in wartime Britain - he had never grown tired of her stories, even up to her death when he was only seventeen.  It had stuck with him, though maybe not in the way she had intended.

“But we are not openly at war, and the eggs are plentiful.”  Mycroft was examining the contents of his kitchen without actually touching anything, the cluttered worktops and dry dished on the draining board clearly more interesting than Greg himself and he was certain he hadn’t imagined the slight apprehension in the air.

“Exactly!”  The eggs sizzled as as they hit the hot metal, solidifying almost instantly and he had to lift the pan away from the heat for a moment, turning it down so that they would not cook too quickly, breaking them up into perfect little lumps before they could cook too much.

“You find Anthea to be attractive?”  The change in topic was a little jarring, but to his credit Greg did not let it show, pausing for only a moment before replying.

“Of course.”  He poked at the eggs in the pan, careful not to overcook them, though he had no idea how Mycroft actually liked his eggs.  Likely less well done than he did. “You don’t?”

“She’s a very competent woman, and the only assistant I’ve bothered keeping for any length of time.”  With the scrambled eggs almost ready, Greg split the bacon between two plates, hot from the grill where he had left them to warm through.  He hid his smile from Mycroft at the clear dodging of the question; no wonder the man had made his career as a politician, or something like.

“That’s a no, then.”  Greg snorted, adding cheese and pepper before tipping the cooked eggs out, half onto each plate to join the still steaming bacon.  The toaster finally popped and he grabbed both slices, buttering them quickly and cutting them into triangles before arranging them next to the remainder of the food.

“My tastes lie elsewhere, I’m afraid.”  Mycroft was no longer looking at him and Greg paused for half a beat, contemplating that.  Not his business in the slightest, but interesting nevertheless, and if nothing else it was something they had at least partly in common.  That was assuming Mycroft meant what Greg though he might mean and wasn’t being deliberately obtuse for some reason.

Actually, this was _Mycroft Holmes_ ; the chance of him being deliberately obtuse about almost everything was scarily high.

“Nothing wrong with that, I’m a man of varied tastes myself - can you grab some cutlery?  Drawer to the left of the sink.” The plates were warm in his hands and laden down with food, possibly more than they needed but it smelled good and it looked good, and Mycroft looked as though he needed feeding up.

Not that Greg was going to admit that out loud.

“I hadn’t expected to be fed as well as bathed, thank you.”  He did actually sound genuinely thankful for once, Mycroft’s tone taking on a soft edge as he remained a step behind Greg, following him through to the half of his living room which housed the dining table and chairs.

“I’d be a pretty terrible host if I didn’t feed you, it’s bad enough that you had to sleep on the sofa.”  Greg didn’t bother fishing out any pads for the table, placing the warm plates directly down on the wood atop an already existing burn mark.  It had been from a paella pan, he thought, though the memory of it was fuzzy, too many years ago and he certainly didn’t own that particular pan any longer.

“That had not been my intention in coming here, I assure you.”  The chair creaked as Mycroft sat, and Greg couldn’t help the low chuckle of amusement at his house guest’s mildly alarmed expression.

“No, I’d guessed that.”  Greg took his time enjoying his next mouthful, hot buttered toast laden with pieces of slightly crispy bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs, contemplating how he was going to phrase this.  Finally, he swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course you may, I will answer if I am able.”  Which was as much as Greg could hope for, really. His clearance level likely wasn’t even high enough to know what brand of aftershave Mycroft used, much less anything else.

“Why me?”  The look he levelled Mycroft with was plain, open.  He was too tired to play around with pretty words asking all the wrong questions, and it had bothered him since Monday.  It bothered him even more so now, with the man sitting across from him at the table, eating the breakfast he had cooked, looking bizarrely awake and his usual, attractive self - which was terribly unfair considering the lack of sleep and proper nutrition of the last few days.

“To what are you referring?”

“All of this.”  He gestured at the folder, photographs peeking from the top, and the notebook he had been using not all that long before.  “I was pulled off my other cases to head up this one specifically, I’ve been given access to places and people I shouldn’t normally have access to.”  He paused then, poking at his breakfast, frown pulling his lips down for a moment. “You, turning up on my sofa in the middle of the night, drunk on expensive scotch and who knows what else.”

“I have every intention of properly apologising for-”

“Shut up for a minute, will you?”  The look of offense on Mycroft’s face was almost comical, but Greg forced himself to continue rather than dwelling on it.  “I’m not holding that against you. God almighty, if Gail had vanished on me like this I’d probably be neck-deep in a bottle every night.  All things considered, you’re doing damned well. What I mean is, _why me?_ ”

“You mean, why would I choose to come to you rather than to someone with whom I am better acquainted?”  

“Exactly that, yeah.”  He waited, and for a long moment he wondered if Mycroft would bother answering, the other man instead choosing to push the remains of his breakfast around his plate.

“You are-”  Mycroft paused, the grip around his fork tightening slightly.  “There are very few people in this world who I can openly trust, and even fewer who I could speak with so plainly, particularly about something like this.  Of those who I _can_ speak with, you are the only one I _wish_ to.”


	3. It is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post this now because I need to move on with the story, though it may get a re-write later on as I'm not entirely happy with it.
> 
> Hopefully you'll enjoy it though.

The remainder of their breakfast was eaten in a contemplative sort of silence, Greg working through what Mycroft had revealed to him as he scraped his plate clean.  Mycroft  _ trusted _ him.  No, more than that, he considered Greg - what, a friend?  Did Mycroft Holmes actually  _ have _ friends?  Greg supposed he must have; the man was just as intelligent as Sherlock, if not more so, only without the apparent sociopathic tendencies and complete social ineptitude.  

Though that same intelligence likely made it difficult to build any sort of rapport with another person, and Sherlock’s disdain of those he considered to be lesser than himself was well known, even amongst those who called him a friend.  How John managed to brush off some of the more scathing comments was entirely beyond him. Was Mycroft the same? And, if so, what on earth did he see in Greg? He had allowed Greg to see him at his very worst, his most vulnerable, a level of trust he simply was not used to.

How the hell was he supposed to  _ respond _ to something like that?

“It seems you are quite the accomplished chef.”  Mycroft finally broke the quiet that had fallen, knife and fork placed neatly together across his empty plate and he leaned back in his chair somewhat gingerly, earning another mildly concerning squeak from the decades-old wood.

“Hardly.”  Greg snorted, sliding Mycroft’s plate across to himself as he stood to clear away the dirtied tableware.  “It was just bacon and eggs, not exactly Michelin starred stuff.” The cutlery clattered as it tipped off the plates into the sink; he would rinse the worst off and leave the washing up for later.  It could wait. “Just wait until you try my risotto prima verde, you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Careful, detective inspector; a lesser man might think you were inviting him to dinner.”  Was he? With a jolt, Greg realised that Mycroft was indeed correct; he enjoyed spending time around the man, Mycroft wasn’t exactly unattractive - quite the opposite, in fact - so why not?  And Mycroft had as much as said he valued Greg’s company. The man in question had followed him through to the kitchen, leaning up against the door jamb with his arms crossed over his chest and one foot looped over the other.  He was openly sizing Greg up, looking for  _ something _ , though Greg wasn’t quite sure what. 

“A lesser man would be right.”  Leaving their breakfast pots to soak in the half-filled bowl, Greg grabbed the tea towel to dry his hands on, not sure where his hand towel had vanished to.  “Once we find Sherlock and wrap this case up, I’m treating your tastebuds to the best damn risotto you’ve ever had.”

“I shall hold you to that.”  Whether he had found what he was seeking, Greg wasn’t sure, but there was a noticeable dip in Mycroft’s shoulders as some of the tension held there bled out.

“And,” Greg continued, undeterred “you are not allowed to refer to me by my title even  _ once _ over dinner.”  His finger hovered between them, pointing somewhere around Mycroft’s nose, and the entire thing was so ridiculous that he could not keep the grin from twisting at his mouth.

“Duly noted.”  Mycroft murmured by way of response, holding Greg’s gaze for a moment longer before ducking out of sight into the hallway and back through to the living area.  Not quite fast enough, it seemed, if the barely-caught quirk of lips was anything to go by. “Now that your stomach is sated and less likely to  _ eat itself _ , shall we return to the matter at hand?”

“Sounds like a plan.”  Following after Mycroft, Greg found the man already leafing through the dossier, spreading it out on the table.  Standing shoulder to shoulder, he could feel the heat radiating from the other man, pleasant in the morning chill of the flat.  “So I’ve found a few interesting bits hidden in this thing.” Greg flipped his notepad open and placed it next to the dossier, photographs pushed to one side for the moment as he drew Mycroft’s attention to the third page of the extensively censored document.  “There’s not much, admittedly, but I’m hoping we can use some of what I’ve spotted.”

“I can only hope that you’re correct, Gregory.”  No one called him Gregory aside from his own mother - and even  _ then _ only when he was in trouble.  Still, the sound of it rolling from Mycroft’s tongue lit something warm and pleasant within him, a not entirely unprompted shift from the impersonal  _ detective inspector _ that Mycroft typically preferred.  Greg found that he liked the sound of it.  The resignation in his voice however,  _ that _ he most certainly did not like and his hand slid up to grasp Mycroft’s shoulder before he realised that he had moved at all.

“Hey, come on now - it’s still way too soon for that sort of talk.  We’ll find him Mycroft, I already promised you that, and I’m not about to let you make me out to be a liar.”  Greg could feel the warmth of Mycroft’s shoulder against the edge of his palm and thumb through the cotton of the expensive and newly pressed shirt he had donned after his shower, suit jacket thankfully absent for the moment.  It was something of a surprise when the touch was not shrugged off. He squeezed lightly, the back of Mycroft’s waistcoat smooth against his hand.

“Perhaps you are right.”  Mycroft acquiesced after a moment, yet he did not seem convinced, but nor did he pull away from the contact between them.

“I know I’m right.  Look, the coat is in bits, anyone with at least one good eye could see that from the photo.  And yes, there’s enough blood from the looks of it to indicate that Sherlock  _ was _ injured to a certain extent while still wearing it.”  With some reluctance, Greg relinquished his grip, needing both hands.  Reaching over, he plucked the offending photograph from the pile, placing it before Mycroft and trying to ignore how the man went slightly pale at the sight, and how his stomach clenched in regret at having to inflict it upon the man once more.  “But look at the slash pattern, and the location of the blood.”

“A wound to the shoulder and abdomen would cause blood loss such as this, but may not necessarily be fatal.”  Pale grey eyes flickered over the image, as though taking it in again for the first time, Mycroft’s brow creased in concentration.  “How did I not notice this before? Most of these cuts could not have been easily administered while the coat was on Sherlock’s person, not without inflicting further injury.”

“Which would have given us a different blood pattern, and a damn sight more  _ of  _ it.”  Greg had attended enough homicides to know that much at least.  Sherlock himself had solved one the previous month, in fact; parking attendant who had been stabbed seventeen times, and even her clothing had been less wilfully destroyed than Sherlock’s coat.

“This is obvious, I don’t understand how I managed to miss it.  There is far more damage to the garment than I recall, the image in my mind is  _ inaccurate _ .”  Chancing a glance at Mycroft, Greg noted the deep indent between his brows from more than just the recent absence of his brother; too many years of too much worrying leaving a permanent mark to prove it.  There was a look of horrified astonishment on his features, as though he was seeing the photograph for the first time all over again.

“You haven’t been sleeping or eating right, and you’re in shock still, it happens to the best of us.”  He tried for reassuring, and was fairly certain he had missed the mark entirely as Mycroft’s expression remained unchanged.  It was true though; he had reacted in much the same way when Mycroft had dropped the photograph in his lap the previous night, an emotional panicked response based on the knowledge that this wasn’t just some John Doe - this was  _ Sherlock _ .  His friend.  

He could only imagine what Mycroft must be going through by contrast.  His protective streak was a mile wide where Sherlock was concerned. He adored his little brother, whether Sherlock chose to appreciate the sentiment or not.

“Not to me, it doesn’t.”  Mycroft seemed to be in genuine distress over the knowledge that he had missed something so horribly, painfully obvious.  That he was  _ fallible _ .  He seemed suddenly small, expression open and perhaps a little frightened.  It was disconcerting to witness, to say the least. “What  _ else _ have I missed then, which might have given us an edge in finding Sherlock?”

“Probably less than you think.”  Greg moved to retrieve what few pieces of the dossier which had been pushed out of immediate reach, finding he missed the warmth of contact against his side more than he thought he perhaps should.  “There’s not a huge amount in this file; better people than me have already edited out anything  _ useful _ .”

“More intelligent, perhaps, but never better I assure you.”  Blinking in surprise, Greg turned to regard the man at his hip with a mix of confusion and a spark of amusement.

“Was that meant to be some sort of backhanded compliment?”  He wasn’t offended by it, and made certain that Mycroft knew as such - not that Mycroft needed much help in reading him, Greg reminded himself.  He was an open book to most people, and ‘most people’ didn’t have anything approaching the same capacity for deductive reasoning as either of the Holmes brothers.

“Nothing of the sort.  So what were you able to glean from the report?”  As he watched, Mycroft seemed to gather himself, mask sliding firmly into place and any shred of visible humanity carefully covered.  It was likely necessary, a way of holding himself together, but that didn’t mean that Greg had to like it.

“A whole lot of useless words and sentences mostly; whoever wrote this thing clearly doesn’t believe in being concise, though that might work in our favour.  There are a number of mentions of an unnamed individual. Male, tall, blonde - any idea if Sherlock knew anyone like that?” The only person Greg could think of who was close enough to Sherlock to warrant the number of mentions he had found in the dossier thus far was John, and he only ticked possibly two of the three available boxes, and even that was a bit of a stretch nowadays.

“Not so far as I am aware.  I had noted the mention of an unnamed individual in there, but there is nothing of any use and no name we can use to track him down.”  Which, now that Greg thought about it, seemed a little strange in itself -  _ why _ would the name be omitted?  Unless they hadn’t known who the man was, which seemed unlikely.  Which meant that his identity had been hidden for a reason; they weren’t  _ meant _ to be able to track him down.

But if  _ that _ was the case, why leave mention of him in there at all?  The whole thing was making less and less sense.

“Possibly not, but some of these sections might be linked to the same man - we have dates, places, if nothing else they would be worth checking out.”  He considered for a moment mentioning his current line of thought, yet it was likely Mycroft had already considered all possibilities and come to his own conclusion.  Or, he hadn’t yet noticed it, and pointing out another gap in his knowledge would worsen his already fragile state.

“You know you are grasping at straws, correct?  This individual may not even know Sherlock, much less his present location.  It seems inconceivable that my network would not have reported back to me if my brother were cavorting with someone new.”  Lips pressed into a thin line, Greg swallowed down his concerns; Mycroft  _ hadn’t _ noticed.  Something was almost certainly off about the whole thing, but he didn’t have all the puzzle pieces yet, couldn’t put his finger on what precisely was wrong.

“Maybe, but it’s the best we have at the moment, and there’s too much in here for it to be complete coincidence.  Do you have any issue with me passing this off to some of my best and brightest to have a look through? See what else is in here.”  He was a damn good detective, and even without the extra boost that Sherlock’s assistance had given his division they solved far more cases and put away far more perpetrators than the national average.  It wasn’t purely Greg, but he knew he was good at what he did. Even so, another set of eyes could potentially make all the difference.

“Not at all; this report is now police property to do with as you see fit in the context of this case.”  

“That’s reassuring, at least your people trust us with that much.  There was one other thing-” Greg stopped, glancing up at Mycroft as the man shifted, concern lacing his features.  “Are you alright?”

“What?  Oh, yes.”  Mycroft had the bridge of his nose pressed between thumb and forefinger, expression pinched.  “Just a headache, you know how it is.”

“Painkillers not helping?”  

“They appear to be wearing off already.”  It was a wonder they had even kicked in at that point, little more than an hour after he had dug them out of his medicine box under the kitchen sink for his suffering guest.

“Can’t have any more for a while yet, let me get the blinds.”  Greg stepped away from the mess of papers on the table, reaching over to tug the blind back down before stepping over to the larger of the two windows behind his comfortable chair.  He shouldn’t have bothered opening them at all, he thought. Wouldn’t have, if he had been alone.

“Please, do not put yourself out on my part.  I shall need to leave soon anyway, there is a meeting shortly after lunch and it is imperative that I am in attendance.”

“Come off it Mycroft; I’m just closing the blinds, that’s hardly ‘putting myself out’, is it?”  The room was plunged into something resembling darkness, and Greg was certain he caught the tail of a bitten-off but very much relieved sigh from his house guest.  A clean glass from the kitchen and some cool but not quite cold water later, and he was back at the table, pressing the drink into Mycroft’s hands and noting the tremor in his fingers.  “Drink this, it should help.”

“The coffee was perhaps a bad idea.”  Mycroft admitted, lips curling into a wry little smile.  “It does tend to make them worse.”

“You get headaches like this a lot?”

“Migraines, yes.  They have been worse of late - the stress of it all, I suppose.  I have medication for them, but I fear I cannot take it with the tablets you so kindly provided earlier this morning.”

“Shit, sorry.”  Greg felt a stab of guilt at that, illogical though it may be.  “I didn’t know.”

“No, you wouldn’t have, and I appreciated the sentiment.”  Mycroft glanced down at his watch and frowned, squinting to see the hands past the reflection of glass.  “Let us get as far through this as we can before I am forced to stop.”

“Sure you wouldn’t be better off heading home now before it gets too bad?  I don’t want to strand you here on your own, I’m going to need to head into work once we’re done with this.”  He considered joining Mycroft in a taxi - or, knowing him, an unmarked car with blacked out windows. They could go over the files during the ride and he could head straight to the Yard from there, yet the thought was an impractical one and he knew Mycroft would simply dismiss it.

“No, we cannot put this off any further; if there is something in here which might help in the search for my brother, we  _ must _ find it.”  There was a determination there which pushed past the discomfort, though Greg knew it would take precious little time for the migraine to develop into something unbearable.  “It will be two hours before I can take my medication, I fear I will not last quite so long as all that however.”

“Alright, let’s do as much as we can.”

As much as they could turned into another forty five minutes, by which point Mycroft was struggling to stand yet refusing to sit, face scrunched up in pain and eyes barely open.  It was a testament to his determination that he was able to continue for that long, really. He was leaning heavily against Greg’s side, one of Greg’s arms holding him upright, though he hadn’t seemed to notice.

“I should like to lie down for a spell, Gregory.”  Mycroft finally murmured, and the sound of it near enough broke Greg’s heart.  “I am genuinely sorry, but I can do no more for now.”

“My bed’s got clean sheets on it, you look like you could do with a sleep.”  A good eight hours at least, though Greg was certain Mycroft would never agree to that so he chose not to suggest it, instead focusing on pulling Mycroft gently against his side in an attempt to coax him through to the bedroom, all the while studiously ignoring the flutter in his chest at the thought of the man in his bed.

_ Inappropriate, Greg!  Get your mind back in the game and out of the goddamn gutter. _

“No, the sofa will do fine, thank you.  Just for a moment, and then I shall be out of your way.”  There was a little extra pressure against Greg’s side, and then Mycroft was pulling away, scarcely managing two steps before he was stopped by a firm arm around his waist.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”  Mycroft didn’t try to pull away, stopping still with one hand pressed over his eyes, hunched in on himself and wincing at the raised tone.  Greg immediately reined himself in, quieting himself to an almost whisper before the last few words left his mouth. “How far do you think you’re going to get in this state?”

“There is a car waiting for me downstairs.  I may need to request your help to reach it, but Anthea will be able to manage from there.”

“Wait, Anthea’s still here?”  Had been waiting in a car for Mycroft the entire morning - had she been there last night as well?  His clock ticked over to nine and Greg sighed, adjusting his grip on Mycroft so that he could tug his phone from his left pocket.  “Give me her number.”

“Detective Inspector, I hardly think that this is the time to-”

“I’m not going to ask her on a  _ date _ , Mycroft, I’m going to call her and tell her that you’re being an idiot.”  Unlocking his phone with a swipe and a swiftly pressed combination, Greg pulled up the dial screen and waited.  Could out-wait Mycroft’s stubbornness in his present state, he knew.

“I am not-”

“Yes, you are.  Anthea’s number.  Now.” It shouldn’t have surprised him when Mycroft rattled off the mobile number from memory; the man was brilliant, after all.  Still, he could barely recall his own when he needed to fill in forms. The call rang twice before it connected.

“Detective Inspector.”  The familiar female voice greeted, and of  _ course _ she already had his mobile number.  Greg rolled his eyes and focused on coaxing Mycroft through to the bedroom, the fight seemingly gone from him.

“Anthea, got a bit of a problem.”  He could practically  _ hear _ as she sat up straighter, though nothing sounded over the line.  “Your boss has gone and given himself a stress-migraine. I’m putting him to bed to try and sleep it off, but I don’t want to leave him on his own and I need to get back onto this case.  Get yourself up here and keep an eye on him, alright?”

“I will be up shortly.”  The call disconnected and Greg pocketed his phone, using his now-free hand to coax Mycroft into leaning into him fully, starting the slow and clearly painful trek through to his bedroom.  Mycroft had given up on keeping his eyes open altogether, head hanging low and breaths coming in small, pained gasps.

“How bad is this likely to get?”  He murmured, keeping his voice deliberately quiet.  Mycroft did not respond beyond a low grunt that told Greg everything he wished he hadn’t needed to know.

The bedroom was already shrouded in darkness; he spent so little time in there that there was no real point in drawing the blinds in the morning, and leaving them closed meant the place at least looked partly lived in when he couldn’t get home from work.  Such was the life of an officer of the law, though it was working in his favour for the moment at least.

Mycroft all but sagged into the bed as Greg coaxed him into sitting, and then lying, flushed face disappearing into the cool cotton of Greg’s pillow with a huff of breath that carried with it a near-silent groan.  His suit would be creased and unwearable by the time he was ready to leave, though with his present state it was unlikely that Mycroft would be able to do much more than head home and crawl into his own bed, much less attend some ridiculous meeting.

“What triggered it?”  Anthea was waiting for him in the living room when Greg crept back out, closing the door near-silently behind him.  Still just as attractive as ever, he thought, and had circumstances been different he would be tempted to ask her out for a drink.  She was watching him carefully though, no longer absorbed in her phone, eyes taking on the intensity of a kestrel watching for the smallest rustle of grass.

“We were working through the file he brought over, it started up not long after breakfast.”  A very pleasant breakfast, Greg thought, wondering if perhaps the opportunity to do the same again might present itself once they brought Sherlock home,  _ safe _ , and once Mycroft was feeling decidedly less run-down.

“He’s eaten?”  He could not quite work out whether that was surprise in her tone, didn’t know her well enough and her expression remained carefully neutral.  Well now, that certainly backed up his assumption that Mycroft had been skipping meals, and he thought for a moment to berate Anthea for allowing him to do so - wasn’t she meant to be his assistant?  The situation was not exactly normal however, so he held his tongue.

“Yeah, bacon and eggs.  Oh, and toast - you hungry?”  He had enough left for one more portion, if she wanted it.  It would last until the weekend if not, give him another breakfast when he next had chance and save a trip to the supermarket.

“No, thank you.  He kept it down?”

“Thankfully yes, I guess there was enough time in between for his stomach to have dealt with it.”  

“Unlikely, though the painkillers should work better with food.”   _ Unlikely? _  Anthea was well-versed in Mycroft’s health issues, then.  Still, it seemed an odd sort of dismissal. Nothing had been usual in the past few hours however, and Greg found each new thing less and less surprising.

“Yeah, about that.”  Greg ran his left hand through his hair, making a mental note to get a haircut and then promptly pushing the thought from his mind.  “He had some ibuprofen first thing, to deal with the hangover. He should be able to take his migraine meds in about an hour or so, but sleep might be better for him at the moment, take the edge off.”

“You seem to know a bit about migraines, detective inspector.”  There may have been a begrudging flicker of respect there, or he may have imagined it entirely - was she always this clinical?  Mycroft likely appreciated it, Greg did not. It made her far too difficult to read.

“Yeah, my aunt used to get them pretty badly, before she died.  Took her off her feet for days at a time, so I’ve got a bit of experience.”  Anthea hummed, and he had the distinct impression that he had just passed some sort of test.  “Well I need to get to the Yard, help yourself to whatever in the kitchen and you’ve got my number if you need me.”

“Of course.  I would also ask that you keep me apprised of any updates to the case as I will be confiscating Mr. Holmes’ phone until further notice.”  She must have taken his surprised look as one of confusion, or at least he assumed as such, her tone mildly exasperated as she continued. “Artificial light, particularly that of mobile devices or computer screens, will make it worse.”

“Right, well I need to be off.”  It seemed awkward for a moment, though Greg was almost certain it was only on his part as Anthea waited expectantly for him to leave.  Leave his own home and, god, wasn’t that a turn up for the books? With a huff of amusement that he knew she caught but made no comment to, he gathered up the dossier and his own notes, shoving both into the briefcase he almost never used, and left to catch a taxi into work.

Greg was halfway to New Scotland Yard before he remembered that he hadn’t taken the bins out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a tumblr and like messages; syrum.tumblr.com


	4. We must look for consistency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta dah! Chapter four, finally finished. Chapters should start coming a little quicker once the interesting stuff starts happening...which is very, very soon :3 please do enjoy!

The Yard was, as was generally typical for a Thursday morning, positively thrumming with activity when Greg finally arrived.  He was a full three hours late for the start of his shift, yet no one batted an eyelid as he marched through the main rabble of desks on his floor and collapsed into his chair, office door left open.  Not that it mattered much whether he closed it or not; the glass walls made privacy near enough impossible without drawing the blinds, which he almost never did. Greg took a moment to compose himself, more affected by the events of that morning than he had initially thought, and unwilling to let on to his team - or his commanding officers, for that matter - that he had rather less than all of his faculties about him.  Exhaustion gnawed at his mind, seeped into his bones, and he knew he was going to have to make a concerted effort to get as much sleep as possible that night.

He couldn’t handle much more of this.

“Knock knock.”  Josephine, a young sergeant who had transferred into the department just over a month prior and who originally hailed from Cambridge if memory served correct, hovered in his doorway with a broad and genuine smile across her face.  Her dark tresses were scraped back with the same meticulous precision as always, and brown eyes sparkled with an energy that the job had yet to stamp out. Three more months, he gave it, before the drive died and she requested a transfer back out to one of the less emotionally taxing divisions.  She might surprise him yet, but he hoped she would make the choice before she allowed the job to change her.

“Sergeant Lopez, what can I do for you?”  Greg offered back what he hoped was a welcoming smile of his own, though it slid from his face rather more promptly than it normally would.  She didn’t seem to notice, though admittedly they hadn’t known each other for over long.

“Johnson brought in some cakes for his birthday.”  Josephine beamed, placing an unmarked brown paper bag upon the cluttered surface of his desk closest to the door.  “Saved you one before the lads could scoff the lot, no idea what you actually like so I just grabbed whatever. How’s the case coming along?  Sally said you had something.”

“Well, it’s certainly something.”  Greg agreed, peeking into the bag and finding a vanilla cream slice.  Normally he would have inhaled the thing, but his breakfast had actually been filling for once, and whatever was left of his appetite after that had been quashed by the concerns roiling in his gut.  “Not sure what we’ll get from it, but we’ve got some new info from a government source - since you’re here, grab Williams and Clinton, I want both of them on this document  _ yesterday _ .”

“The government?”  Her brow furrowed, and he could see her trying to connect the dots, to figure out the link between an eccentric missing man and the British government and coming up blank.  Clearly, she had yet to actually meet Sherlock. He hoped he would get the chance to rectify that, once all this was over. “Clinton’s still on the Richmond case.”

“Why the hell’s he still on that?  I told him to wrap that up last week, we already got the guy.”  Grumbling, Greg pushed the paper bag to one side and booted up his computer, tugging the dossier and his own notes from his bag while he waited for the ancient machine to fire up.  He’d had a laptop for a time, admittedly not a very good one - right up until Sherlock had got his hands on the thing and almost cost Greg his job. He suspected that Mycroft’s influence had helped to smooth things over, yet the man had never admitted to so much.  Greg would need to remember to ask him about that, later. The computer beeped at him and the password screen finally appeared. When he glanced up again, the sergeant was gone, only the floral scent of her perfume lingering.

The printer, thankfully a newer addition than the centuries-old computer he was expected to work from, started up rather more quickly and the little green ‘ready’ light blinked up at him from under his desk.  It was one of those multi-functional ones, which could scan, photocopy, fax and probably make him a cup of tea if he asked nicely enough. The scanner was a flatbed rather than a feeder, which meant having to place each page in one after the other, but the grey-scale photocopied printouts were quick enough and the methodical work was somewhat soothing to his frayed nerves.

His own notes would remain on his person - he knew full well that providing them at this early stage would potentially colour the results from his team, and they could compare their findings once the initial work had been carried out.  He would have to hand over the manilla folder however, along with all the potential answers that it contained, so that it could be properly examined. It wasn’t that he didn't trust his team - far from it, they were some of the best in the force and he trusted each of them with his life, but the thought of being unable to access the information on a whim should anything new come to light left him cold.  

For the first time since the case started, Greg was starting to wonder if he was taking too much upon himself.  He was too invested though,  _ emotionally compromised _ .  But delegation was only going to get him so far, and he knew full well that the only reason he was leading this investigation at all was due to Mycroft’s insistence.  Hell, Mycroft might be the only reason the investigation  _ existed _ , and he really didn’t want to linger on that thought for too long.

At the thought of the other man, Greg’s stomach clenched.  He was undeniably concerned for the older Holmes - Mycroft hadn’t seemed at all like himself, but there again present circumstances weren’t exactly ‘normal’.  The migraine had been a worry, the admission that they were commonplace even more concerning. Yet - was it his place to worry?  _ Yes _ , he assured himself, lips pressed into a thin line.  It almost certainly was his place. Attraction on his part notwithstanding, Mycroft had as much said that he considered Greg a friend, had come to him willingly.  Trusted him.

He considered, for a moment, sending Anthea a message to remind her that his medication was due.  Not that she would have allowed it to slip her mind; Mycroft wouldn’t keep her around if she was anything less than perfect at her job, he knew that much at least.

“Boss?”  Clinton stepped into the room without bothering to knock, dragging Greg from his internal musing, long strides and fixed scowl making him an intimidating man to work with.  The short-cropped hair and almost stereotypical broken and re-set nose and cauliflower ears of a former boxer certainly didn’t help matters. He looked after his own, and Greg knew Clinton would have the back of anyone he worked with, but his temper would hold him back from any sort of meaningful career progression.  He was sharp as a tack though, had spotted things others had missed more than once. 

“You wanted to see us?”  Williams followed a step behind, keeping a cautious eye on the man in front of her.  A methodical and analytical woman, she would be Sally’s second when Donovan finally ascended to detective inspector - which she inevitably would, given time.  Her blonde hair was cropped into what Greg thought might have been referred to as a ‘pixie cut’ and she was never seen without a full face of makeup. Her current wariness of Clinton, however, was decidedly concerning.  She wasn’t a timid woman by any means, so her present behaviour indicated that something may well be amiss. Something that Greg should probably know about, and likely  _ would _ in short order.

“I need both of you on this, asap.”  Shuffling the last of the photographs back into the folder, their copies neatly lined up on two pages of A4, Greg ignored the tension that hovered around the pair and pushed the dossier across the table to Clinton’s expectant hand.  “Glean everything you can from it, no matter how small or insignificant. I need results and I need them  _ now. _ ”

“And what about the Richmond case you had me on?”  Clinton’s tone had taken on a rough edge, and Greg met his gaze steadily, unwilling to back down on this - and certainly not from a subordinate.  He didn’t like the look in the man’s eye, or the poorly concealed hostility in his expression. 

“You were meant to wrap the Richmond case up on Friday of last week, this takes priority.”  Greg’s tolerance was already paper-thin, and he had none of his usual patience for those who might question his orders.  He was in charge on this one, damnit! A man was missing, his  _ friend _ was missing.  

“And the Super put me  _ back _ on it in case anything was missed.”  The man half huffed, half growled, and there was a flare of irritation there that Greg didn’t miss.  The annoyance, the hostility, suddenly made more sense and he felt a flash of guilt at his initial assumption that Clinton had been bordering on insubordination.  No, this was something else - a conversation he had not been present for, and judging from the look on both his sergeant’s faces one which he was unlikely to approve of.  Something had riled them both up, and Greg had a fairly strong suspicion that he knew precisely  _ who _ was behind it.  They would tell him, if he asked.

Greg had no intention of putting them on the spot like that, however.

“Leave the Super to me, get yourself on this and get your results to me as soon as you can.”  And really, what the hell was Thompson  _ thinking _ pulling one of his best men from the case at such a critical time?  What was he playing at? “I’ll deal with any backlash myself. Make sure you’re thorough with this and keep me updated.”  A curt nod from Williams and a grumble of something from Clinton that he couldn’t quite catch and likely didn’t wish to, and they were both gone along with the dossier.

Greg’s shoes made little more than a soft swish against the hard-wearing carpet as he made his way down the hall to the Chief Superintendent's office.  Unlike his own, the blinds for his internal windows were always pulled closed unless the man was planning on giving someone a dressing-down, at which point he would preemptively open them so that anyone within the vicinity could witness the humiliation of their fellow officer.  Greg’s opinion of the man and his working practices was fairly well known. There was no love lost between the two of them, that much was certain.

“Sir?”  The door clicked open after Greg’s brisk knock, and he hadn’t bothered to wait for a reply before stepping into the too-warm space and shutting the door behind him.  The office itself would have been a mirror image of his own, if not for the shelves of books he knew the man hadn’t read, the certificates and awards hung on the walls stretching back over several decades and the sheer volume of clutter on the single desk in the middle of the room.  “Have you got a moment?”

“Have you wrapped up that ridiculous manhunt, yet?”  Thompson replied, not bothering to look up from the document he was signing and entirely ignoring Greg’s question.  Chief Superintendent Carl Thompson was older than Greg by less than a decade, though his hair had retained the mid-brown of his youth and was fairly obviously receding, climbing further back from his forehead with each passing year.  He was a little on the overweight side, and while it was common knowledge that he used to be quite the talented footballer on the Yard’s official team back in the day, he had not so much as kicked a football since his promotion quite a few years prior.  Clearly, his diet hadn’t been adjusted to fit his more sedentary lifestyle, and it showed. Oversized glasses slid down his hooked nose and Thompson pushed them back up, beady grey eyes squinting at the small type of the document he clearly found more interesting than Greg.

“Sherlock Holmes hasn’t been found so no, with all due respect  _ sir _ , I have not.”  He had to dial back his irritation, swallow it down, hands clasped behind his back simply as something for them to do that wouldn’t look vaguely threatening.

“Well hurry it up, will you?  He’s probably bloody eloped or something, the whole thing is a monumental waste of time.  Have you actually managed to find any  _ evidence _ yet?”  There was a snide, condescending tone to the man’s voice and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was designed to provoke.  Thompson  _ wanted _ a reaction, and there was no way in hell Greg was going to give him one.

“That’s why I came to see you.”  Greg made a point of breathing in deeply, slowly, calming the rising ire in his chest.  Nothing good would come from him losing his temper, and it could cost him his job or at the very least land him a suspension if Thompson felt like it.  The Super couldn’t go against the orders passed down, couldn’t take Greg off the case while he was still actively working, but Greg wouldn’t put it past the man - vindictive as he could be - to remove Greg from the force temporarily to interfere with those orders.  It was no secret that the man  _ hated _ taking orders, though he had no qualms about handing them out himself.  “His coat’s been found covered in his blood - and yes, before you ask, it’s been tested and it  _ is _ Sherlock’s.  We’ve been given access to a dossier as well which might have information hidden in it that we can use; I’ve got Williams and Clinton on it now.”

“Clinton’s on the Richmond case.”  Thompson had looked vaguely surprised at the admission of new evidence, but clamped the expression down quickly.  It was a testament to Sherlock’s continued influence, he thought, that Greg had caught it at all.

“Not for the minute he’s not, I need him on this.”  A flare of nostrils and Thompson’s irritation was suddenly palpable, eyes narrowing at the clear defiance of orders.  Not that Greg had any inclination to back down, on this or  _ any _ matter which may impact the case.  Were he to search a little deeper however, he might find his reasons a little more  _ personal _ , but that was an introspection for another time.

“Take Hopkins instead.”  The flippant tone and sheer  _ ignorance _ of it almost dragged a bark of disbelieving laughter from him, and the hands behind his back released their hold on one another.  He buried them in his pockets and sucked in a quick breath, swiftly losing his internal battle with his temper.

“Hopkins is on a three month sabbatical, he’s not back for another six weeks.”

“And?”  Thompson finally looked up, meeting Greg’s barely restrained glare with a cool stare over the top of his glasses which had, once again, slid down his nose.  “I’m not going to let the whole damn department grind to a halt just because one man decided to take a walk off a building.” That stung, a calculated strike, and Greg bit down on the inside of his cheek to remain silent.

“Understood, sir.”  Greg finally managed to grind out, turning on his heel, nails digging half moons into the palms of his hands as he forced down the sudden need to  _ break _ those glasses, along with the nose they were perched upon, with his fist.  “I’ll assign Wilson to the Richmond case and see to it that he’s wrapped it up by the end of the week.”  Striding back to his own office, blood thrumming in his ears, Greg ignored whatever retort Thompson threw after him - knowing that if he didn’t, he would be out of a job and likely looking at assault charges.

Sequestered away within the confines of his office, door shut for once, Greg sank into the scratched leather of his chair.  His mind was still thrumming, anger overwriting everything else for the moment even as he tried to force it down, to swallow the need to scream out his frustration, to  _ break _ something.

The coffee in his mug was cold and congealed, left to stagnate overnight and in need of a clean.  Just the sight of it staring back at him was enough to push him over the edge; calloused fingers wrapped around the porcelain and, with more force than he thought himself capable of, Greg launched the mug into the wall.

It shattered on impact and Greg slumped back, breathing heavily and staring at the brown splatter that coated and stained the off-white paint, dribbling down towards the grey carpet where it soaked in and vanished.  Chips of white and painted porcelain littered the floor, and there was a small dent in the wall where the base of the mug had impacted. He would need to clean that up later he realised, eyes sliding shut and head falling back as the last of the tension drained from him.  It was an inelegant solution, but at least he hadn’t actually  _ hit  _ someone; Greg had a notoriously tight hold on his anger, but he knew the potential was there, as it had been with his dad, as it had been with his grandfather.

He had been adamant, since childhood, that he wouldn’t be continuing the tradition of violence into another generation.

The exhaustion was making it harder, however - his more base emotions making themselves know, and Greg’s thoughts drifted back to Mycroft for a moment.  The forgotten worry spiked again, and he wondered if it was still too soon to pester Anthea for an update regarding the man’s present condition. He would - or  _ should _ at least - still be sleeping off the effects of his migraine.  Would he still be sequestered away in Greg’s bed when he returned home?  It seemed unlikely, but the thought was nevertheless a pleasant one. Something to consider once this was all over, perhaps.  He was just considering sending a wholly unnecessary message to remind Anthea that Mycroft would need lunch if he wanted to take the next dose of his medication, and that there was food in the fridge or a particularly good cafe around the corner from his flat, when his phone rang.

“Please tell me you’ve got something.”  Greg let his eyes slide shut again, rubbing at them with the back of his free hand, the starts of his own headache starting to build as the rollercoaster of a morning ticked on.  He noted the slight pause down the line, knew that his tone betrayed how close to the edge he was hovering, and was thankful when no mention came of it.

“Twelve-forty train to Manchester Piccadilly, I’ve got the times for each stop along the way.”  Sally replied, curt and to the point, a fact which he was inordinately grateful to her for at that moment.  He could hear the clip of her low heels on tile and the general chatter of echoed conversation that indicated she was still in Euston station.  An announcement echoed, muffled and indistinct, and it went ignored. “It was running six minutes behind schedule all the way to Wilmslow, where it managed to make some of that time up and eventually got into Manchester only three minutes late.  Train was apparently pretty quiet most of the way, and I was able to track down the conductor on duty that day.”

“Were they able to tell you much?”

“I showed him a mugshot of the fr- of Sherlock.”  She quickly corrected herself, and Greg chose not to call her up on it.  “He remembers seeing Sherlock and checking his ticket - or thinks he does, anyway.  Said it seemed odd, a bloke walking around in a coat and scarf in the middle of summer, s’what made the face stick in his memory apparently.  Didn’t need any prompting on the coat either, just came out with that on his own. He couldn’t remember seeing him again after that though, but it was near enough three weeks ago so I’m honestly surprised we got what we did from him.”

“Makes sense, that’s more than I’d hoped for, good work Donovan.”  Despite the peculiarities of it, an eye witness who not only recalled Sherlock’s face but also confirmed he  _ had _ been wearing his coat, without prompting, was gold dust in their present situation.  More information would have been nice, but Greg wasn’t about to start getting picky; he couldn’t afford to.   “Any news on our mystery blonde?”

“Nothing from the description you gave me; it could match half of bloody London with how vague it is!  I asked and just got looked at, gone out. Our conductor couldn’t remember Sherlock being with anyone, apparently he sat alone on the train.”

“Damn, well it was worth a try.  What about the CCTV footage?”

“I got D.I. Algar to check Manchester, Stockport and Wilmslow for me, owed me a favour.  Did Euston myself so I could collar the conductor before he started his shift - lucky break, that - and called through to Crewe.  Funny thing, though; they’ve got nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“Footage’s been wiped for that afternoon at every single station, midday to six.  Everything else is there before  _ and _ after - apparently they keep a month’s worth, most places.”  Greg sat up straight at that, eyes snapping open. “I know what you’re thinking and yeah, it’s strange.  No one I spoke to could explain it. Some tech lass up in Crewe tried to explain why it didn’t make sense, I’ve got it written down hang on.”  He could hear the shuffling of papers and cloth, the sound of her footsteps ceasing for the moment, and when she returned her voice sounded much closer to the phone.  “Something to do with timestamps on the server showing that the cameras were running, meaning there should have been footage even if it was just a black screen. She said she’s checked through the backups and the logs; no delete records, and no indication that those six hours ever existed.  Said she’s never seen anything like it before, would have suspected dodgy logging or a virus but it’s  _ too _ thorough.  It’s the same at all five stations too.  Algar’s got a contractor for the GMP going in tomorrow for something called  _ penetration testing _ , check to see if they can find how whoever it was got in and out again without leaving a trace.  He’s going to call if he gets anything, but it’s not looking good.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly.”  Sally agreed, and the bustle and noise of the train station quietened for a moment as she resumed her walk, only to be replaced by the sounds of street traffic.  “Looks like there’s someone out there who doesn’t want us finding him, boss.”


	5. Where there is a want of it, we must suspect deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pub in this chapter used to be my go-to when I lived in London. Assuming it's still as good as it used to be, I do recommend the food!!

It was almost midday by the time Greg managed to commandeer a car, though it felt as though far more time had passed, the morning dragging on seemingly forever.  Two hours at the Yard had felt closer to two days, and he escaped with a young sergeant by the name of Forbes who had only been promoted from constable back in January, and the strongest coffee Costa would agree to make for him in a frankly oversized cardboard cup.  The caffeine burned on the way down, still too fresh and hot for any sane person to drink and he hadn’t wanted to dilute it by adding milk. Not to mention that milk tended to give him a stomach ache at the best of times, and that particular moment - stuck in midday traffic in an air conditioned car with another person - most certainly  _ was not _ the best of times.

Forbes hadn’t questioned it when Greg slid into the passenger seat, seemingly pleased when he was allowed to take position behind the wheel, carefully guiding the silver BMW out into the steadily thrumming traffic of lunch time London.  Roadworks along Victoria Embankment slowed their progress and gave Greg time to think, his drink disappearing rather more quickly than it perhaps should have, the thrum of caffeine in his system doing little to quiet the anxious concern that had overtaken him.

Or, he thought, was serving only to make it worse.  The tremor in his fingers was almost certainly due to the lack of care he was providing his body.  Perhaps it was time to cut back on the coffee, and make a concerted effort to drink more water instead.  How much had he consumed today already? Five cups? Six? He had lost count a while back, and wasn’t entirely certain as to quite how many the one he was presently drinking actually counted as.

Cars filtered around them, taxi cabs mostly, smoke and pollution and noise clogging up the streets and making their permanent mark on the lungs of those who breathed it in.  The Thames was no less busy to their right, the water a mass of dark ripples even in the midday heat, sunlight reflecting off each tiny wave as it bounced upon the surface. Boats of all kinds continued their merry back and forth, their progress unaffected by the constant red-amber-green of the traffic lights.

It took a good twenty five minutes to travel the two miles into Clerkenwell, and more than once Greg considered simply leaving the car with Forbes and walking the remainder of the way.  The traffic congestion had mostly cleared by the time they reached Blackfriars however, so he kept his seat, remained silent, and was pleased when Forbes chose not to start up a conversation aside from initially asking where they were going.  Which, was all well and good really, as Greg hadn’t thought to offer the information up himself.

At least parking was straightforward enough, which was a rather distinct bonus of being with the police; they could, within reason, park wherever they needed to, as long as they weren’t liable to cause an unjustifiable obstruction.  Farringdon Lane provided ample parking, and while all of the legitimate parking spaces were technically full - technically, because some of the parking jobs down that street were quite frankly  _ atrocious _ , and should be written up - there was enough space immediately outside the pub that leaving the car on the double yellow lines wouldn’t cause a problem.  They wouldn’t be overly long anyway; it wasn’t as though Greg had much to go on, and he privately considered the possibility that the whole thing might well be a colossal waste of time.

Still, at least it got him away from his desk, and away from Thompson - he had been stomping around the Yard ever since Greg had departed the man’s office, clearly looking for a fight, and Greg wasn’t about to give him one.

“A pub, sir?”  Forbes’ lip quirked upwards into a small smirk, though one look at Greg’s expression and the smile was gone, along with whatever he had intended on following his half-question up with.

“Just keep your eyes open, sergeant.”  The Betsey Trotwood had only been open for around half an hour by the time they reached it, and the gathered lunch crowd were scattered around the scant few wooden picnic-style tables outside the front door to the pub, a pleasant hum of chatter and the scrape of cutlery against plates filling the air as the two officers passed.  “Take note of anything unusual.” No one paid them any mind, and as Greg pushed his way into the low light of the pub, he he hit with the scent of pie, mash and gravy. His stomach gave an involuntary growl of complaint at being ignored, apparently having already forgotten the breakfast he had shared with Mycroft only hours before, though with how his morning had gone so far it felt more like days.

The best description he could come up with for the Betsey Trotwood was  _ eclectic _ .  Not that Greg hadn’t drank away the stresses of the day in similar pubs before, did so on a semi-regular basis in fact.  It of course had the traditional - and oft-seen in small London pubs of this ilk - corner bar lined with bottles and glasses over to the left, and small square wooden tables dotted around the room furnished with wooden chairs that had been lovingly smoothed down by hands and legs and backs over years of use.  The walls were a mixture of wooden panelling, verdant green paint and what looked to be brick-print wallpaper. A couple of patrons looked up as they entered, before returning to their food. By contrast with those outside, each of the clientele within the pub seemed to be dining alone, and one grizzled-looking man sat alone in the far corner surrounded by what looked at first glance to be no less than five empty pint glasses.

He took a moment to wonder what had gone  _ quite _ so wrong for that particular gentleman that he could be approaching six-deep only half an hour after the pub had opened.  Sherlock’s insight would have been interesting on that one, perhaps, though it would also likely have gotten them into an altercation with the man.

_ Not that he can _ .  Greg swallowed down the rising tightness in his chest, suddenly finding that he was no longer hungry, and made his way over to the bar while studiously ignoring the spark of ill-timed curiosity.  The woman tending it was perhaps in her early fifties, dark red hair pulled back into a short ponytail, a few strands falling loose as she busied herself wiping down the already spotless bar and he knew she was keeping one green eye firmly fixed on them both.

“Good afternoon,” Greg started, pulling out his ID card for her to see and keeping his expression neutral.  “I’m detective inspector Lestrade, and this is Sergeant Forbes, both of Scotland Yard. We’re on a missing persons case at present and have been led to believe that the man in question visited here with an acquaintance perhaps six weeks ago.  Would it be alright if I asked you a few questions?”

“Sorry, luv.”  She didn’t look particularly sorry, he thought, her face drawn into a bored sort of expression.  “Only been working here a couple weeks, can’t help if it were before that. Got a photo of this missing lad?”  He did, of course; Greg wasn’t about to take any chances, and had furnished each of his officers with images of the missing consulting detective on the off-chance that a potential witness may come to light at any given moment.  It hadn’t particularly helped thusfar, but better to have the photo on him than be caught without it.

“No, don’t recognise him.  Not a regular, anyhow. Why not ask Barry over there in the corner?  He’s in here often enough, might be of more help.” She tipped her pointed chin up in the general direction of one of her patrons, the same man whose pie and mash had caught the attention of Greg’s stomach upon entering the pub, though the plate before him was now mostly empty.

“Thank you.  If you do happen to spot him, here’s my card.”  The small white business card was fairly nondescript, corner already bent when he passed it to her, and she barely glanced at it before shoving the thing in her pocket.

“There a reward in it?”  The bartender huffed, about ready to go back to looking busy until her next customer arrived, clearly only vaguely interested in the conversation.

“Officially, no.  Unofficially, however, if you manage to help us track him down alive and well, I have certain  _ assurances _ from the family that there may be some compensation for your time and effort.”  Mycroft’s words, not his, but it got the woman’s full attention and he held her gaze for longer than necessary before turning to find the gentleman she had indicated was already watching them.

“Would it be alright if we asked you a few questions?”  Forbes asked the man with a soft smile, clearly more invested in this line of questioning than Greg had thought he might be.

“Of course, sit yourselves down lads, you’ll give me neck ache otherwise.”  The man chuckled, pushing the chair opposite himself out from under the table with his foot and taking another mouthful of his rapidly dwindling lunch.  He looked to be perhaps a little older than Greg, wider around the middle certainly, and with a grinning, reddish face that seemed perhaps a little too affable.  Judging from his suit, Greg would have said an office worker, though the tailoring was somewhat more bespoke than he was used to seeing for the area so perhaps a manager?  He was the sort of person who most would find instantly likeable without ever really being able to pinpoint precisely why.

“Apologies for interrupting your lunch, Mister-?”  Forbes took the offered chair and Greg pilfered one from a nearby empty table, joining the pair, happy to let his sergeant take the lead for the moment.

“Barry Hawthorne.”  The man replied, shifting his knife to his left hand so that he might offer his right to shake once Forbes had scribbled the name down on his pad.  “Heard you talking to old Carla there, you fellas got yourself a missing person?”

“Oi, less of the old from you.”  Carla called from the bar, and Barry chuckled in response, earning a middle finger from the woman that Greg only just caught from the corner of his eye.

“Yes, he went missing a couple of weeks ago.”  Forbes turned to catch Greg’s attention, not that he particularly needed the prompting - the photograph was on the table before the sergeant had finished speaking, Sherlock’s face staring up at them, the snap from the previous Christmas, and one that he hadn’t known Molly was taking.  His expression was soft, unguarded, an unconscious smile tugging at his lips.

Greg thought, when he first saw it, that Sherlock might have been looking at John when it was taken.

“Would have been in here about six weeks ago, by our estimation.”  Greg finally added, watching Barry closely as his brow furrowed in thought as he cast his attention over the picture.

“Six weeks ’s a long time, so I can’t be absolutely sure, but you don’t see many with cheekbones like  _ that _ round here.  He a model or something?”

“Nothing of the sort.”  It might have been amusing in any other circumstances, though Greg did make a mental note to inform Sherlock of his apparently wasted talents as a model once they finally found the bastard - and then proceed to mock him mercilessly about it for as long as was feasibly possible.  “You remember seeing him, then?”

“Yeah, I think I do.  Looks familiar, but I couldn’t tell you how long back - don’t think it was six weeks, mind.  Maybe about a month back.” A month would put Sherlock’s presence there extremely close to the date of his disappearance, and deviated sharply from the contents of the dossier - although that was if he continued to assume he had managed to translate the cryptic and mostly redacted document correctly.  There was the undeniable possibility as well that Sherlock had visited the location more than once, though the  _ why _ of the matter was still frustratingly out of reach.

“Do you happen to know if he was here with anyone else, or whether he came alone?”  Greg knew Sherlock well enough to know that the man would not have willingly sought out a pub environment unless he had a very good reason to do so, and there was the issue of the mysterious blonde man as well, if he was involved at all.

“Alone, I think.  Came in, made a beeline for the stairs like he owned the place, came back down a short while later.  Don’t think he ordered anything, but I got the feeling he knew the place. Not a regular though, that’s for sure - we all know one another, and he wasn’t a familiar face.  Might have been meeting someone and they didn’t show, don’t know. Why, you after someone else as well?”

“We’re still persuing the possibility that there might be someone else involved, yes.”  There was a twinkle in the man’s eye, and Greg leaned back in his chair to add some distance between them, an uncomfortable sensation bubbling up from within.  Forbes didn’t seem to notice it, but there was something about this man that put Greg on edge. He seemed too open, too  _ eager _ for details they couldn’t give.

Hell, they hadn’t even released the details of Sherlock’s present status as missing to the papers yet.

“Think he’s been snatched away by this other bloke?  Or lass, you never know nowadays.” Barry swiftly corrected himself, though the assumption seemed innocent enough.  The remainder of his plate sat forgotten and cold, his attention fixed entirely on Greg without flicking even once to Forbes who was still scribbling something down on his notepad.

“That isn’t something we’ve been able to discount.”

“What do they look like, this  _ other person? _ ”  Barry was leaning further and further forward in his seat, belly pressed against the wooden table hard enough that the four legs squeaked against the floor as it shifted.  His enthusiasm was jarring, and Greg felt a rising sense of unease at the back of his neck.

“We’re still working on a composite sketch”  Greg lied smoothly, hoping that his team would have something for him on their return to the Yard.  He would get nowhere with the description as it presently stood; ‘a man with blonde hair’ could account for a fairly high percentage of the population of London, and that was assuming the man in question was actually a Londoner and hadn’t travelled in from further afield.  “Would we be able to call on you once we have more information, should we need to?”

“Course, mate!”  Barry grinned, taking far more enjoyment from the whole thing than was perhaps normal.  “It’s all a bit exciting this, isn’t it? Bloke goes missing and I get to help with the case, proper dream come true.”

“Forbes, if you could take down Mister Hawthorne’s details, I’m going to take a look upstairs to see if I can find anything.”  With a nod to Carla as he passed, Greg left the rest up to his sergeant and made his way slowly up the too-steep staircase to the top floor of the pub.  He needed to take a proper look around, he reasoned, yet there was no denying that the conversation with the man downstairs had set him on edge, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why.  A gut instinct, nothing more, but something about Barry had seemed entirely  _ wrong _ , almost manic in his reactions.

Greg wasn’t about to discount it - he had spent long enough with both Sherlock and Mycroft to know not to.

_ Speaking of… _ the top floor of the pub was entirely deserted, more wooden tables set out around the room and red walls making the place feel cosy and warm.  Greg fingered the tasseled shade of a table lamp as he pressed his phone to his ear, listening to it ring. The base of the lamp took the form of a decidedly feminine pair of legs in fishnets and high heels, and he wondered where the proprietor had even managed to  _ find _ something like that as the call connected.

“Detective inspector.”  Anthea’s voice sounded down the line, no less clipped and businesslike than she had been earlier that day.  “Do you have information for me to pass onto Mr. Holmes?”

“Yeah, maybe.”  Why had he thought this would be a good idea again?  Aside from the fact that his thoughts kept returning to Mycroft whether he wanted them to or not, his focus split in a way he couldn’t afford.  He might have been able to write it off as concern, considering how they had left things, but Greg wasn’t so blind to his own inner thoughts that he could wilfully ignore the blindingly obvious cause of his distraction.

“Should I arrange a meeting to discuss matters, or would a phone conversation suffice?”

“A meeting.”  He decides, hoping that he will have more than  _ two eye witness sightings and some missing camera footage _ by the time Mycroft is well enough - and free enough - to see him.  “Please.” He finally adds, earning what he assumes is an amused hum from Anthea.

“A car will pick you up at lunch time tomorrow, you will be dining with Mr. Holmes, wear the dark grey suit with the burgundy tie.”  He could hear the sound of nails on a keyboard down the line, the quiet click of keys only audible due to the almost-silence of the deserted upstairs rooms he was meant to be combing over.  “If anything changes in the interim, keep me informed.”

“Yeah, will do.  How is he?” A pause, and if Greg wasn’t very much mistaken Anthea seemed somewhat surprised by his concern.  “Mycroft, how’s he doing?”

“He will need a few more hours and a decent night’s sleep, but he is-”  She paused, considering her next word carefully. “-functional.” So, still suffering despite the medication - it wasn’t surprising, really, considering the state Greg had left him in that morning, and the fact that the man had pushed himself far beyond what either of them should have allowed.  He shouldn’t be up and about, much less working, and yet that seemed to be the insinuation from Anthea’s very deliberate phrasing.

“Alright.  No point telling him to take it easy really, is there?”  If there was something that neither of the Holmes brothers seemed capable of, it was moderation, particularly where their own health was concerned.

“Not particularly, shall I pass on your well-wishes to him?”

“Yeah, please.”  And really, what else  _ could _ he say?  Anthea offered a curt goodbye and ended the call, leaving the room in near-silence.  It lasted only a moment before Greg’s phone rang again, caller ID showing it to be one of the phones at the forensics lab and he answered it without pause.

“Lestrade.”

“We were advised to give you a call if we found anything with the coat.”  He didn’t recognise the voice on the other end of the line, but then again Greg didn’t exactly spend much time down in the labs - he had no reason to, not since he broke things off with Lisa, the lab tech he had dated for a month or so a bit too soon after his divorce.

“Go on then, what’ve you got?”

“A note, it’s...um-”  There was a pause, and Greg felt his stomach drop.  “I think you should come and see for yourself, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr and like messages; syrum.tumblr.com


End file.
